


Rocket

by ljs



Category: I Spy (1965)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-01
Updated: 2011-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Allthinky, requested by Sarahenany for the Help_Japan auction.</p><p>A mission in 1960s Florida. Appropriate, Scotty thinks, because Kelly's a rocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Allthinky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allthinky/gifts).



“Come on, Mervyn. Wake up.”

The words, desperate under their usual joke, hung in the thick Florida air. But Kelly, crumpled and still on the thin white bedspead, didn't respond.

Scotty dipped the washcloth in the reddened water of the ice-bucket one more time, as if he might try again to wipe away the long, still oozing cut on his partner's leg. Wouldn't work, of course. His own stupidity meant that cut was going to be there for a while.

He let the washcloth go, and then brushed back the hair that had flopped over Kelly's forehead. Beneath it was the real problem – a knot the size of the Soviet Union, courtesy of a damn Russian agent and some wrench usually used for building rockets here on the Cape.

Of course Scotty understood Petrovich's confusion – 'cause what was Kelly, after all, but a human rocket, loaded up with too much fuel, too many flammable ideas, too much goddamn propulsion. Point him in the direction of a problem, and whoosh....

Scotty stumbled to his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets, went to the window and looked out at the gravelled parking lot of this shabby beachside motel. Dark now, with the lone parking-lot light shining down on their car; across the lot, over by the office, the vending machines glowed like fire.

The thing was that a rocket needed to be pointed in the right direction, and it was Alexander Scott's fault that Kelly hadn't been. All his own fault, all of it.

“Come on, Kel,” he whispered, and remembered the start of it all.

..........................

The official luncheon at the Winter Park Tennis Club that afternoon had been just about what Scotty expected. In other words, although the proprietors of the place and the organizers of the Winter Park Invitational Tournament were _thrilled_ to have one Kelly Robinson dining here on their manicured lawn which led down to the lake, Mr Robinson's Black trainer was... unwelcome, to say the least.

From the minute he and Kel had gotten this assignment, Scotty had expected everything he'd gotten: the stares, the whispers, the veiled requests that he move along to the kitchen. See, even though this might be a nice wintering place for rich folks fleeing the Northern snows, it was still the South; Zora Neale Hurston's town of Eatonville was next-door to Winter Park, yet it was a million miles away from this club.

Kelly, of course, had just put on his best smile and told the organizers that his trainer and friend Alexander Scott was going to sit with him right out here at this white-clothed table. When the grande dame chair of the Invitational Committee had protested, he'd turned up that wolfish charm, and Mrs Evan had turned into a happy little puddle of blue hair and diamond rings. So Scotty had his seat in the sunshine, after all.

It was better for surveillance, he supposed. He and Kel were here to look for a mysterious Russian operative only known as Petrovich; a double-agent (now deceased, after a nasty incident on -- and off -- the new Verrazano Bridge) had told one of their New York City colleagues that Petrovich would be coming after the Apollo program this weekend and would be using a harmless little outing like this one. Other than these details, they had nothing else on the guy; these were the times an agent wanted a Polaroid in the dossier. But he and Kel would do their best.

Kelly's hand on his knee alerted him to the ongoing conversation -- “Why, _yes_ , Mrs Evans,” Kel said now, all wide-eyed boyish charm, “Mr Scott and I are certainly looking forward to the scheduled trip to the Kennedy Space Center after lunch.”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Scotty said blandly. “I'm a big Tang-drinker, myself.”

“Behave yourself, Hoby,” Kelly whispered, then carried on, “We're both just kids at heart, Mrs Evans. Can't wait to see the big engines.”

“Call me Milly,” the grande dame said with what was frighteningly close to a simper. Kelly simpered right back, which was familiar and kind of revolting at the same time. Then she raised an imperious hand. “Peters! Peters, come here and take Mr Robinson's and my picture.”

Scotty felt Kelly sit up a bit straighter, but really now. “Little too obvious, Kel,” he whispered.

“Yeah? In plain sight's the best place to hide,” he whispered back, before sending a smile to Mrs Evans.

Scotty sighed. Wouldn't hurt to get a better look at this Peters guy, a nondescript blond man with a very big Leica. He leaned forward--

And then was almost bowled over by a large, stumbling young man with a crew-cut and a distinct smell of alcohol. Scotty pushed away his instinctive revulsion at the smell just as he pushed away the drunk.

But the young man wouldn't stay pushed. “Hey, Blackie, you want to get me another gin-and-tonic?” he slurred.

Kelly turned his head at that, and Scotty sighed again. He knew that look in Kelly's eye.

.....................................

A groan from the bed brought Scotty back to night and this little motel room. Took him two steps to get to Kelly's side. Two steps to see that Kelly still wasn't with him, that pain was taking over.

“Brother, you just can't ever make it easy, can you,” Scotty said softly, as he drifted his fingers across Kelly's forehead. “But I wish you would. I do wish you would.”

.....................................

Kelly was on his feet quick as a cat. With an easy smile, he said, “Hey, man, I'll just get a waiter for you--”

And then fell forward as if he'd tripped himself, which Scotty knew was a masterpiece of fakery because Kel landed just where he'd planned to.

On the drunk guy's head.

Yes, all it took was five seconds and the whole luncheon was disrupted. The drunk man – now revealed to be “Jerry” something, thanks to Mrs Evans' squawks – was on the ground shouting about lawsuits and grass stains, and half of the suit-and-tea-dress population of the nearby tables was checking out the commotion, and Kel was back on his feet with his best apologetic face.

“Sorry, sorry, man. Think I pulled something in this morning's match, it's made me clumsy,” he said, and then leaned heavily on Scotty's shoulder. His fingers dug in hard – whether for excitement or protection, Scotty couldn't tell. “Milly, can we be excused? Need to have my trainer check out my damage before the trip to the coast.”

Something about the grip and the statement made Scotty's jaw clench. But he managed to get to his feet, give a tight smile, and sidestep the drunk as he followed Kelly toward the clubhouse.

As he passed the last table, however, he heard a click and looked back. Peters was just lowering his camera. Which had been pointed at Kelly and Scotty.

Once they'd got inside the grandiose faux-plantation-style clubhouse and been shown into the locker room, Kelly said, “Stanley, you know what?”

“I know that Peters was taking pictures of us, and I don't think it's because of your heroic face,” Scotty said.

That checked Kelly's rush, but only for a second. “Aw, man, that's what I was telling you back there! Hiding in plain sight! Except the thing is--”

“His cover was to capture your savior act on film, huh?” And that hadn't exactly been what Scotty thought he was going to say, but he'd sure said it.

The expression on Kelly's face just... disappeared. His eyes, however, were all sparks and hurt. “Savior act?”

“Forget it, Kel. Tell me what the thing is.”

“No. What do you mean, 'savior act'?”

Scotty'd had about enough of this day as he could take, and it was only one o'clock. Frustrated, tired, he said what he didn't know he meant: “I mean I didn't need your rushing in to save the day like some big hero. I just didn't need you to....” He managed to stop himself too late. For a moment the locker room was silent, except for the echo of water hitting tile, drop after drop after drop. “Kel, I'm sorry. Sorry, put it down to bad fish or something. What's the thing?”

Kelly nodded, as if to a stranger. His voice didn't sound right, even though the words were normal: “Of course, sure. Thing is, that our friend the drunken jerk had a very nice handgun – with silencer – in his suit jacket.”

“Two suspects for one Russian agent, huh? Well, that's just dandy, just dandy and fine.” Scotty knew that his voice didn't sound quite right either – because, after all, he'd just basically punched Kelly in the teeth. He _knew_ better....

“Yep. Dandy and fine, that well-known vaudeville team.” Kelly took a step back. “Guess we'd better get back, get our seats for the dark ride.”

Before they left the locker room, however, Scotty stopped Kelly with a hand to his arm. “Say, since it was your story and all – did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

“No, my man, no.” Kelly didn't look at him. “Just another one of my acts.”

........................................

There in the dimly lit motel room, Kelly's too-cold hand grabbed Scotty's wrist. “Hey,” he said, groggy, “hey, man, where are we?”

Scotty managed a smile. “In the swamp, Stanley. We are deep, deep in the swamp.”

Eyes closed, Kelly breathed for a second. Then, “Are there alligators?”

“One,” Scotty said. He twisted around, broke Kelly's weak hold on his arm, gently laid that too-cold hand down on the blanket. “One alligator.”

Kelly moistened dry lips. “Well, you should go get him, Chester.”

“Don't worry about it, brother.”

The alligator would be here soon enough.

..................................

There actually had been a real alligator on the concrete outside the launch pad that afternoon. Scotty, still a little guilt-ridden about Kelly, still a lot worried about this stupid mission, had distracted himself by wondering if that was a sign of something. At Oxford he'd heard how one magpie meant sorrow, and there was some mystical incantation a guy had to say to ward off the bad stuff. One alligator probably meant something worse.

They'd driven from Winter Park to the coast in a little caravan of officials and tennis players and press – including Peters the shutterbug, who'd somehow arranged to be in Kelly and Scotty's van. Scotty tried to make casual conversation, but Peters seemed more interested in his lens cap.

Kelly, who'd been talking up a storm with Mike Burrows, the Miami tennis bum he'd beaten that morning, didn't miss the (lack of) talk. As the van bumped into Space Center territory, he'd looked at Scotty and shook his head. “Not the guy,” he mouthed.

Kind of funny how Kelly had been the first to make the guy and now he wanted to step back, Scotty thought.

Kind of funny how Kelly had managed to cover most of his unhappiness with Scotty, but it couldn't be hidden completely: something about the tension around his eyes, something about the slump of his shoulders. 'Cause that was Kel, who didn't hold hurt in the same places other people did.

Yeah, just another one of Kel's acts, Scotty thought as they climbed out of the van. Then he shrugged off his nagging ache and began to play his own part.

The Invitational people had planned for a photo op: they wanted the top ten players in front of the arming tower, with flags and hoopla. What the space program had to do with Winter Park, Scotty didn't know, but the deal was that once they were here, tennis rackets were the order of the day. He'd volunteered to hand them out.

As he gave out the Slazengers and Heads and Wilsons, he watched both Peters and Drunk Jerry with the gun – full name, Gerald McDonald; new publicist for the club, the guy who'd dreamed up this little jaunt – as they moved around this merry little band.

And he watched Kelly standing alone at the edge of the group of players, watching and brooding into the late afternoon sun. The seabreeze fluttered Kel's opened suit jacket, brushed against and around his body, but he wasn't paying attention to his own self. He with apparent idleness spun his racket as he turned, spin upon spin.

Scotty made himself get back to the job, to the smiles and the surveillance. He was damn good at the job when he put his mind to it.

And so, as the players gathered for their picture, Scotty saw Drunk Jerry slide himself away from the group and head toward the nearby launch pad, just under construction.

Scotty followed in his best stealthy style. But as he hit the edge of the concrete, he looked back.

Kelly was watching. Scotty was just too far away to read his body and make sure Kel got it. He'd have to trust, that's all.

The shadows were long on the east side of the tower. A couple of cranes dangled over lines in the sand, and trucks shimmered in the light: cranes and trucks alike threw dark shapes on the ground to the east, to the sea.

Drunk Jerry – okay, not drunk -- was walking fast toward the last truck. He swung his hands as he went, as if to show he had nothing in them.

Scotty stayed, best he could, behind a shed at the base of the tower. He didn't want to walk out after Jerry until --

Yeah, until someone emerged from that furthest shadow. That guy definitely had something in his hand.

And from the west came a boom and then a rush of air, and then the mother of all explosions. It was close -- sounded like one of the vans had been targeted. One of the vans...

Despite the fear in his gut (which was stupid, surely Kel and the others were far away from the vans by now) Scotty kept watch on Jerry and the man from the shadow. Old Jer barely flinched at the roar, which suggested he was in this up to his neck, even if he weren't Petrovich.

The man came out of the shadow, and _that_ was a Russian agent if Scotty had ever seen one: military bearing, high-cheekboned, a little thick around the neck area. And that in his hand was one rocket-sized wrench. He proceeded to heft it overhead and without so much as an excuse-me smack down old Jer where he stood.

Cries and shouts and a siren on the sunshine side of the tower, and then running footsteps, hard on the concrete.

It was Kelly, of course, zooming too fast into a place he shouldn't. Even as Scotty reached for his own gun, he said urgently, softly as he dared, “Kel, get back--”

“Scotty?”

Kelly stood there on the line between sand and concrete, looking back just a second too long. He blocked Scotty's line of fire – and then the Russian was there with the wrench, and it was a swing around just as Kelly spun, it was all too fast. Kelly collapsed.

Cold as anything, Scotty aimed.

The Russian looked up, focused, and smiled. “ The great Alexander Scott, just as McDonald told me. And this must be--” He kicked at Kelly's shin, hard. “Kelly Robinson. I am honored.”

Scotty shot. But Petrovich was not there. He'd dropped on top of Kelly.

Cries and shouts and a siren on the sunshine side of the tower, but the sun was setting, and Scotty's chill was moving from the inside out. He couldn't risk a shot, not with Kelly...

Petrovich looked up – long and lean, a floating menace -- and smiled at Scotty. “I'll come for you both,” he said, in the midst of cries and shouts and siren. And then he was up and running past the tower and into the dying light.

......................................

Outside the motel room window, a shadow rose out of the dark.

Inside, Scotty grabbed his gun from the nightstand – fully loaded, safety off. Then he moved between Kelly and the window.

This time, Petrovich couldn't use Kelly as a weapon.

From behind Scotty, a quiet, pain-filled voice said, “You aren't going to save the day like some big hero, are you, man?”

Despite everything, Scotty smiled. He'd have joked back, but across the window came the slash of headlights, and then it got kind of busy.

The door shuddered – a man's full weight against it. Shuddered again, with a splintery series of cracks. Then it flew open.

Scotty knew where to aim. His first shot hit Petrovich in the shoulder, which sent Petrovich's own bullet into the tacky seaside print above the bed. His second shot hit the Russian neatly in the thigh. Only took two steps to get to the staggering fool and wrest his gun out of his hand.

The pistol-butt to the head was of course payback for Kelly's conk on the noggin.

Scotty was rewarded with a choked laugh and “Hey, brother, that's a sweet style you got there.”

“Thanks,” Scotty said, and then, when he saw his partner struggling to get to his feet, “Just sit yourself back down, Fred C. Just sit yourself down and be concussed quietly to yourself.”

“You are no damn fun, pal. And I'm _not_ concussed.” But Kelly lay down without stopping at 'sit,' which meant he was in fact struggling. Scotty pushed away his worry for later.

A car pulled up outside the motel room. Car door slammed, and then, “Scott?”

“Nice secrecy there, Decker. What if I hadn't caught him for you?” Scotty looked down at the still figure on the floor. “But here he is.”

Daniel Decker, former linebacker for the University of Florida and now a field guy in the Miami bureau of the agency, filled the doorway. One look, one head-shake: “Scott, how the hell am I going to get this bastard to DC with him in this condition?”

“Not my problem,” Scotty said. “ _I_ have to get the famous tennis bum Kelly Robinson back to his actual hotel, the one without visible cockroaches, before he's missed.”

“I'm gonna miss that pretty picture of a sunset over the water, though,” Kelly said faintly. “The bullet-hole on the edge of the sea is a nice touch.”

If Kel could wisecrack, the world was... still screwed up. But better. “I'll get you one later, Mervyn.” He went to Kelly and carefully, so carefully, pulled him to his feet. Carefully, so carefully, he settled Kelly's weight against him, steadied him so he couldn't fly off. “Let's be going now.”

............................................

Kelly didn't ask until they were back in the suite at the hotel in Orlando, until Scotty was taping the last corner of the bandage on his thigh. “So how'd you manage it, Stanley?”

'It' was a pretty broad designation for the mess Scotty had navigated. As he thought about how he'd arrange his briefing, he patted Kelly's leg and then twitched the white bathrobe over the wound. “With great difficulty. But hey, you want some water or something?”

“Can't I have a real drink?”

“Not 'til tomorrow. The doc I called said you need to stay awake but rested tonight, and you know how the spirits take you. I don't want to have to stop you dancing the merengue and shaking your few wits.”

Kelly pulled a halfway grin, weary but amused. The lamplight here was kinder to his face than in the motel, or maybe he was recovering faster than ordinary men. Yeah, that had to be it.... “Scotty, sit down and quit stalling.”

“Nice internal rhyme,” Scotty murmured, but he was pretty tired too. He sat down next to Kelly on the sofa and put his socked feet up on the little coffee table. He stared at his toes for a long moment, felt the warmth of Kelly at his side, let the day drain out of him.

Until Kel elbowed him, none too gently. “Story, man.”

“Okay. Okay, first thing was that it was clear that Petrovich had wanted the distraction of the vans exploding, the way that would draw security, so he could get into the restricted-access sections. Looks like he's been making his way from the wildlife refuge over to the Center for a few days....Anyway, he'd made some deal with Drunk Jerry to set up the publicity shot and then blow the joint. Don't know how yet--”

“Y'know, Mervyn, I figured that out even with my aching head. I meant, how'd you manage to get my wrecked carcass out of the Space Center?”

The self-loathing in Kelly's voice was enough to make a partner sick; Scotty brushed his hand across Kelly's unhurt leg and said firmly, “Shut that down now, man. It was _my_ fault you got coshed, you know, and you don't see _me_ wallowing in guilt.”

“Just because you hide it better.” And that was not a joke.

Scotty didn't feel like having that conversation at the moment, so he said, “Yeah, never mind. So there we were in a swampy hell, and I thought, Petrovich's made the standard super-villain speech _and_ he knows who we are. _And_ Decker had hardened security enough that our agent-friend wasn't going to get anywhere there. So he'll be pissed and want revenge.”

“Hate that,” Kelly said.

“I know, Stanley, so uncivilized. Anyway, so I found a car and drove you just off the center there to the first roadside motel I found. Left the car a little ways down the road, like I was trying to hide where we were, but I figured he'd find us.”

“And lo, the bad guy cometh,” Kelly said. “And you got to play the big hero.”

The hotel room got very quiet very suddenly, quiet enough that the slight dripping from the bathroom faucet could be heard. Even here in the luxury suites the systems could break down, the shut-offs didn't always work.

“I'm sorry, Kel. Sorry about this afternoon.”

“You get to say what you need to say with me, brother. You do.” Kelly's voice was soft. “But how do you want me to react when people, y'know, act like fools?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, that's helpful,” Kelly said, and he was not quite laughing. “Finally found something Alexander Scott doesn't know.”

Scotty hit him very lightly on the leg. “Listen, man, you need to refuel for tomorrow. So let's just stop talking and rest, okay?”

“Okay,” Kelly said wearily. He sagged a little against Scotty, stretched himself out. “Okay.”

“No sleeping, though.”

“O _kay_.” 

The petulant emphasis made Scotty smile, but he didn't say anything. He just mirrored Kelly's slouch, letting his weight carry him down.

He could still hear the drip of the bathroom faucet. But everything else was pretty much all right.


End file.
